


We're All Mad Here

by cosetties



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:57:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosetties/pseuds/cosetties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is quick to respond, “You have yet to be driven mad by love.”</p><p>Grantaire’s smile does not fully reach his eyes. </p><p>(A barricade heaven fic where Enjolras and Grantaire finally talk, which is great because there's not much talking to be done when they're being gunned down.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're All Mad Here

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I just wanted to write this to see if I could actually write a fic without littering it with pop culture references, and extravagantlygaygrantaire on tumblr told me to actually post it, so here it is. 
> 
> Title taken from Alice in Wonderland, although this has nothing to do with Alice in Wonderland - I just like stealing things.

When Grantaire wakes, his hand is entwined with Enjolras’s, his unsullied fingers clasped in Grantaire’s own calloused, paint-stained ones.

Because he distinctly remembers losing his grip in the storm of bullets, Grantaire blames it on a trick of fate, some god above who had mistaken Grantaire’s death as pure and self-sacrificing. There’s a moment when he’s content to lie there on the floor with Enjolras’s warmth beside him, but surely, it’s better to separate now before Enjolras makes the decision for him. Grantaire may be acceptable company in Enjolras’s last moments, but with an eternal afterlife stretching before him, Enjolras will again find himself disdainful of poor, cowardly Grantaire, who could not even muster up the courage to live.

His mind is clear as he disentangles his hand from Enjolras’s, but there is a need building up in his blood, and he supposes that death curing his thirst for alcohol would be too much to ask. It is almost overly easy to remove his hand, as if their hands had never meant to be joined in the first place. Enjolras sniffles a bit as Grantaire inches away but makes no other indication that he has noticed.

The window in the upper room of the wine-shop faces the Rue Saint Denis, but the street has been replaced by a river—Grantaire can just make out the familiar waters of the Seine by the light of the moon. A bridge he’s passed repeatedly in his explorations of the city sits a few feet away from Corinth, a ridiculous parody of the Parisian layout he has grown up with all his life. Pieces of furniture from the barricade float on the river, and Grantaire wonders if this is what the afterlife is like, a slow dismantling of anything previously built.  

Something about the river calls to him, and before he can second-guess himself, his hands are braced against the edges of the window as he pokes his head out into the night sky, eyes trained on the river underneath. The tips of his boots brush the floor of the Corinthe as his upper body hangs in the air.

“I hope you’re not looking to jump,” comes Enjolras’s voice from behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, Grantaire notices that he is still beautiful in death, _of course_ he is. His bullet wounds seem to have healed, and, belatedly, Grantaire notices that his own have as well. Not even Enjolras’s hair seems mussed, and he knows he must look a fright next to him.  

Stretching and working out the kinks in his neck, Enjolras almost seems worried—Grantaire can pretend he sounds worried—as he says, “I would rather you not die twice, if such a thing were possible.”

A corner of Grantaire’s mouth quirks up. “Perhaps I am contemplating following in Ophelia’s footsteps. Oh Ophelia, that sweet maiden corrupted by a wretched world! She lived and loved all the wrong people. And what do the Fates offer her? Death, the only escape. Shall I braid flowers into garlands now, to signal the coming of my madness? I will ask Jean Prouvaire to provide the flowers, if he has joined us in this world as well.”

Enjolras is quick to respond, “You have yet to be driven mad by love.”

Grantaire’s smile does not fully reach his eyes.

“How far is it to the river, do you think?” he says offhandedly as he forces himself to turn away from Enjolras. It’s a difficult task, but someone has to do it. “Perhaps I can conveniently time my fall with some particularly painful chair, or a table covered in blood. After all, you never wanted me to dishonor the barricade with my drunkenness. I will save you the burden of asking me to leave.”

Enjolras’s breath hitches, somewhere near Grantaire’s side, and in the midst of Grantaire’s rant, he must have crossed the room. He makes no move to pull Grantaire back, and the other man isn’t sure if he’s grateful or disappointed. Perhaps this is just another call to attention, he’s been known to try anything just for those blue eyes to notice, whether it is with pity or disdain. Any attention is better than indifference.

“We are dead,” Enjolras says, needlessly. “Death is very quiet.”

Grantaire can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “You died for your cause, like you have always wanted. Incorruptible until death, following the footsteps of those fools, Robespierre and Saint-Just. Something about you even strikes me as similar to the _enfent terrible_.”

“I am no child.”

“You are very young, younger than I.” Sometimes, when watching Enjolras rally a crowd, seeing his eyes spark as though he’s lived through so many more revolutions than this one, Grantaire forgets that. Enjolras is pure, and chaste, and virginal, and he deserves more than a residual sense of obligation to Grantaire.

Instead of replying, Enjolras wraps his fingers around Grantaire’s, prying his hands away from the window and tugging gently. Grantaire pulls away as if burned _(their hands do not match)_ , hissing, “Do not pity me.”

“I want you here. If I had not, I would have told you to run and escape.” He ducks his head, blushing. “If I were not so selfish, I would have told you to run.”

The idea of Enjolras selfish is so absolutely ridiculous—if anyone were selfish, it would be Grantaire for his false martyrdom—that Grantaire begins to laugh, which only makes his position all the more precarious.

A hand loses its grip on the window, and a hip threatens to slip past the pane before Enjolras is supporting him, pulling him back on solid ground and turning him to face the younger man. His mouth is set in a frown, an expression Grantaire is familiar with, but the concern in his eyes is new. Fingers trace Grantaire’s hand, the hand he died grasping, but Grantaire stares until Enjolras coughs uncomfortably and shoves his hand back into his pocket.

“If you are Ophelia, get thee to a nunnery before further corruption pulls you to your death,” he jokes weakly, and Enjolras was never made for humor, not at all.

Although his head has begun to pound, a side effect of the alcohol dependency, Grantaire manages to force out, “Nuns’ habits do not agree with me. We would be the worst of friends. I would be forever trying to flee from them, and they, as my jailers, will be inclined to prevent my escape. No, better to avoid our inevitable spat.”

“Be serious.”

“Let us make a deal, dear Enjolras. I will be serious if you will be honest. Tell me, why are you still here and not searching for the others? Why waste your time with me when you have a new world to explore? I will be fine here, alone. I will find some absinthe, and all will be well with the world again. I hereby relieve you of any responsibility you may feel.”

Enjolras makes another move towards Grantaire. “I want you here.”

Grantaire shakes his head to stop him. “You are like a siren, Enjolras. Even the lies you spew forth ring true in my ears. You must stop now, before I want to believe them.” Suddenly, Grantaire clutches his stomach as pain flares through his body, hoping Enjolras will not notice.

Enjolras, ever stubborn, does indeed notice, and when Grantaire gives in and keels over, Enjolras wraps his arms around his waist to keep him upright. He presses a hand to Grantaire’s forehead, a trick he probably learned from Joly, but Grantaire is willing to bet he wouldn’t know how to tell an unhealthy temperature from a normal one. “Are you all right? Do you need—“

“What I need is _alcohol_.” Enjolras flinches, but here he is, the Grantaire Enjolras despises, the one constantly dulled by addictive substances. He has not converted into a decent human being in death, no, he is still the same Grantaire, and Enjolras should  know that.

As he wrenches himself out of Enjolras’s arms, his voice is harsh. “I let you down. I did not take up arms, and I was deluded enough to pretend I was one of you—one of the fighters. I do not believe in your cause, and I never will.” Sweat breaks out on his brow, and he clenches his teeth to keep from crying out. “Please just leave me.”

Enjolras’s voice is soft. “But you still woke.”

Grantaire laughs mirthlessly. “I _woke_ because I could not fathom living without you. Believe me, I had not suddenly grown out of my cynical nature overnight.”

Enjolras pauses, thoughtful, before finally asking, “Why do you think I permitted you to die alongside me?”

“Enjolras, don’t ask me questions I cannot answer.”

Enjolras’s sudden grip on Grantaire’s shoulder is strong, stronger than Grantaire would expect. “Listen to me. You are a flawed man, I know that.” Grantaire snorts, but Enjolras presses on, “But I accept you for all your faults. I have spent so long loving humanity but not its people, Combeferre always said. The imperfect, damaged people.”

 “You are wrong—“

Enjolras has a habit of ignoring conflicting opinions, and true to form, he barrels on, “We will learn from each other, Grantaire. You believe yourself to be the only one who benefited from my acceptance, but you are mistaken.”

Enjolras’s eyes seem sincere, and Grantaire is relaxing ever so slightly into his touch, allowing the warmth of Enjolras’s hands to reinvigorate him. But his insides roil again before he can get truly comfortable, and through gritted teeth, he says, “Do you see this? Look at me, I am useless.”

Enjolras does not flinch this time, meeting Grantaire’s gaze steadily. “If you will have me, you will learn that you are far from useless. And through you, I will learn to recognize my own flaws.”

There’s a childlike glint in Enjolras’s eyes, an idealism Grantaire is afraid to shatter. If he’s honest to himself, a part of him wants to believe Enjolras when he says that Grantaire is worthy of being his equal, that they can navigate this afterlife in mutual understanding.

The blasphemous thought that he would very much like to kiss Enjolras slips from his mouth.

It’s been far too long since he’s blushed, but that’s what he does now, his cheeks heating up as he hears his own words. He is far too busy contemplating his escape to notice the sounds of shuffling feet from the floors below, the first sign that they are not alone.

“Enjolras, are you in here? Is Grantaire with you?” Courfeyrac calls out. “Have either of you seen my hat?”

Somehow, Grantaire and Enjolras manage to communicate to each other that neither particularly wants to answer until the conflict at hand is resolved.

A light emanates from the lower floors, filtering through the cracks in the wood. Joly is waxing philosophically—about frogs and their place in the circle of life this time—and Grantaire isn’t sure it’s much of an improvement from cats. Footsteps pad up the stairs, and Grantaire realizes they have seconds.

“Are you in love with me?” Enjolras says, in a rush. He flushes immediately.

Grantaire grins. “That is a question I will only answer if the questioner answers it himself.”

Neither is known for his emoting, but for two people who rarely communicate without reverting to yelling, it’s the best declaration they can ask for.

“Come with me,” Enjolras says, stretching out his hand. Before Grantaire can overthink—about his doubts, about the pain in his stomach still threatening to overcome him, about the fact that Enjolras still seems far too perfect—he takes it.

Their hands still do not fit exactly, but Enjolras’s calming hand manages to still some of the withdrawal-induced tremors, and he thinks _maybe someday._

With a nod, Grantaire permits Enjolras to lead him to the door. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://cossetcosette.tumblr.com/)


End file.
